


we're going down, down

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: Good Girls (TV), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Good Girls AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-04-30 16:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14500896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (in an earlier round)'To her husband, she is his perfect little wife. To her neighbours, she is the very epitome of kindness. To Tommy Shelby, she is the most intriguing woman he has ever encountered.'





	1. am i more than you bargained for yet?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so my 100th fic on here HAD to be a Peaky fic, so that's what this is ;) I'm absolutely loving Good Girls atm, and Beth/Rio just scream Tommy/Grace modern AU. I have no idea how long this is going to be, or when I'm going to update next because work and uni are my entire life right now, but still, I hope you enjoy! <3 <3 <3

To her husband, she is his perfect little wife, the woman who rises earlier than him of a morning to dutifully prepare his breakfast and lunch, the woman who waits all day for him to get home. To her neighbours, she is the very epitome of kindness, forever volunteering herself to organise activities that benefit them all – bake sales, book clubs.

To Tommy Shelby, she is the most intriguing woman he has ever encountered.

\---

It starts like this – she robs a grocery store. Before her dad passed and she left Ireland, he taught her how to use a gun, Grace shivering in the early morning air as he directed her to square her shoulders and raise her arms just a little higher. She does not rob the store with an actual gun, of course, although it would be all too easy for her to acquire one. It is a toy gun that she wields when she enters the store, its orange tip coloured in black. A ski mask hides her blonde waves from view, her voice steady as she tells the manager her demands. All the cash they have in their safe, and _now_.

It is the perfect crime. No one would ever suspect her, Grace Macmillian, to ever even think of swiping a cupcake from the monthly neighbourhood bake sale, let alone actually rob a grocery store. What need does she have of its meagre takings? Her husband is a prominent banker in the city, their house one of the finest in the street. Five bedrooms, although four of them still remain unoccupied, much to her husband’s anguish. He is forever suggesting fertility treatments, but she will not stand to have her body, her privacy, invaded in such a manner, just to fulfil her husband’s desires.  

What they all don’t know is that Clive might be able to manage other people’s money well, but he sure as hell cannot manage his own. Their debts are climbing every day, every time she so much as breathes, and her husband seems incapable of solving the problem he has created. They could sell his collection of baseball memorabilia – but Clive couldn’t bear to be parted from it. They could pawn her jewellery – but they were presents from Clive, hideously ornate. They could downsize the house – but what if they need the space one day? They could do any number of things, all of them feasible ideas, but yet here she is, robbing her local grocery store. She’ll probably attend Pilates after this.

The safe proves to be stocked with far more cash than she thought it would be, and her bag is heavy as she leaves the grocery store, heels clacking rapidly as she rushes to her car, parked safely in the loading dock. It isn’t until she is a few streets over that she discards herself of her ski mask, breathing heavily. She looks in the rearview mirror at the bag of cash sitting safely on the backstreet, and then hits the call button on her dashboard.

“Lauren, hi! Pilates?” 

\---

She stashes the bag of money at the back of her wardrobe, deep inside the box of clothes she brought over from Ireland. She has never had any need of them, not when she met Clive two weeks after she arrived, and married him mere months later. Her clothes now are all designer, form-fitting and nothing at all like the collection of jeans and jumpers she carefully packed in her childhood bedroom. Now, the box provides the perfect hiding spot for her latest endeavour, purple wool hiding the bag from prying eyes.

It will remain there until she figures out how exactly she is going to dispose of such a ludicrous amount of money. She originally thought to pay off their credit cards, and the mortgage payment they owe the bank, but the amount of money hidden in her wardrobe gives her far more scope than simple repayments. She’ll be able to pay their mortgage months in advance, bring their credit out of the black Clive has plunged it into. And, hopefully, she’ll have a little left over to spend on herself. It’s somewhat selfish, but she thinks she deserves it. Clive made this mess, and yet, just like every time he offers to cook dinner, she has been left to clean up behind him. Surely she deserves a spa treatment for her efforts.

Only, it seems the spa retreat may not come to fruition. She returns home from an extended lunch with the members of her latest charitable endeavour, hours spent discussing the best way to raise funds for orphaned children over the finest food the restaurant had to offer, to a man sitting at her kitchen table. She doesn’t notice him at first, not until he clears his throat quietly. At the sound, the glass in her hand slips to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. The man clucks his tongue at her, standing up from the chair. Clive’s chair, situated at the head of the table. He strolls towards her, casual as anything, gaze piercing. Grace cannot seemingly remember how to breathe. She should be terrified, but for some reason she is entirely enthralled as he approaches her, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“Tommy Shelby,” he murmurs, as a means of introduction. The sides of his hair have been shaven close to his scalp, his eyes bluer than the ocean. He doesn’t offer her his hand. She stands awkwardly in a mess of shattered glass, this Tommy Shelby standing incredibly close to her. She can see the hint of a tattoo peeking out of his button-up shirt. “I’m afraid you’ve got something that belongs to me. And I’d like it back.” He offers her a slight smile, wry, and Grace tries to convince herself that her heart is racing because she’s petrified.  


	2. cause that's just who i am this week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the wait! Real life is crazy busy sometimes, but I hope you all enjoy this update <3

Tommy Shelby has a proposition for her. He’s impressed, or so he tells her, by her actions in robbing the grocery store, all by herself. But as it turns out, that’s his money she took, not the store’s, and he wants it back. Every single note, every single coin. There will be no protestation, she will simply retrieve the box from her cupboard and hand its contents over – jumpers and all.  Still, he thinks she’s capable of doing it again, and again, and again, and next time, he’ll let her keep a margin of the money she steals. Twenty percent – Grace makes a mental note to negotiate a higher cut at a later date.

"No one will look twice at a housewife like you,” Tommy Shelby remarks, waving a hand in her general direction. She wants to rebuke his comment, but she swallows her annoyance. After all, in her pretty patterned dress, loose waves and neatly applied pink lipstick, she is the very picture of domesticity. Besides, he could easily have a gun stashed in those pockets, and she’s just done a deep clean of the kitchen. So she merely sucks in a breath, smooths down her dress, and nods in agreeance.  

“No, I suppose they won’t,” she replies, stepping over the broken glass to move past Mr. Shelby, flicking the kettle on. She’s going to need more than a cup of tea to wrap her mind around everything, and she highly suspects she will be intoxicated by the time Clive arrives home, but right now the hot liquid might help settle her racing heart. “Twenty percentage you said?” She’s rambling, words falling out of her mouth. A moment later, resting her hands on the countertop and staring out at the backyard, lawn neatly manicured, she asks, “When you would like me to start?”

Tommy Shelby chuckles from somewhere behind her, a sound that feels so intimate that shivers run up her spine. “There’s no need to be so eager,” he tells her, the broken glass crunching underfoot as he moves towards the back door. “It isn’t as if the money isn’t going anywhere.” She looks over her shoulder at him, hands still safely encased in his pockets. “I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Macmillian.”

“Grace,” she offers weakly, but by the time the words leave her mouth Tommy Shelby is already gone, her back door neatly closed behind him.

She abandons the boiling kettle for a bottle of wine, and when he arrives home Clive has to carry her to bed, concern etched deep into the lines of his brow.

\---

A week passes, and then another. On Mondays she sees Clive off to work, washes up the copious breakfast dishes created because Clive is apparently incapable of starting the day without a hearty breakfast, and then heads off to Pilates. They all go for juice afterwards, and the incessant chattering of the other wives is almost enough to make Grace slam her hands down on the table and leave, but she forgoes such an action in favour of loudly sucking her juice instead.

Tuesdays start the exact same way, except after she kisses Clive goodbye she is stuck at home all day, whittling away the hours until he arrives home. She tries to distract herself with her favourite book, but not even Mr. Darcy can pull her out of the slight melancholia that has settled over her since Tommy Shelby left her kitchen. She colour-coordinates her wardrobe into whites, blacks, pastels, bright colours and denim, and reorganises her bookshelf so it is sorted by genres, not authors. By then it is thankfully 4pm, and time to start organising dinner.

On Wednesdays, she has book club, and arguing that women shouldn’t be forced to have children with one of the older members is enough to keep her from thinking about Tommy Shelby. The world is over-populated, with natural resources in short supply, and yet Lorraine thinks that it is only appropriate every woman provide her husband with a bounty of children – three at the bare minimum, five if possible. No matter the cost, the physical toll, the emotional strain, Lorraine wants to see houses filled with children and fathers happily escaping to work whilst their wives stay home and try to juggle it all. Her commentary enrages Grace, and she cannot help herself, she has to offer a sharp retort.

No one, not even Clive, knows that she still faithfully takes her pill every morning at 8:57 a.m., just as soon as Clive’s car has disappeared from view. When they were first married she stopped taking it, Clive’s enthusiasm for them to have children clouding her good judgement, but when two years passed and nothing at all had happened, she renewed her prescription and swallowed the pill dry in the pharmacy parking lot, Clive’s snide comment over the breakfast table still ringing in her ears. The packet is stashed away in her bathroom drawer, behind the feminine items that still get used and repurchased each and every month, much to Clive’s displeasure.

Perhaps if she were not taking it, they would have a child. Perhaps if she were not taking it, they would still not have a child. There were no scares at all those two years, no late periods that suggested a potential for hope. Taking her pill has become her act of rebellion, her feeble protestation against the life she happily consented to become a part of. She refuses to tie herself further to this life by producing a child, even if a part of her does long to be a mother. But that is the sentimental side of her, and in the end, her logical, rational side will always win.

\---

It is a Friday morning when she sees Tommy Shelby again. She has just finished baking one of Clive’s favourite sweets in preparation for the weekend, raspberry and white chocolate biscuits. When she turns around from closing the oven door, there he is, standing in her kitchen as if it is his own. She almost drops the hot tray at the very sight of him, heart pounding in her chest, but she manages to hold onto it, placing the biscuits down on the countertop to cool.

“Something smells nice,” he remarks. His voice is hoarse is a way that would make her prescribe hot water and lemon, but she doesn’t dare comment on it. Tommy Shelby is a grown man, and she doesn’t think he would look to kindly on being offered health advice from someone like her.

Instead, she merely says offers him a thank you, as courteous as ever. She supposes that she should add, “They’re my husband’s favourite,” but her mouth cannot manage to produce the words. Clive’s presence is already overbearing within the house, the television set to record his favourite shows, his clothes hanging neatly on the line, his favourite beers chilling in the fridge. It is really that terrible if she does not wish to add to the oppressive reminders which surround her?

“I have a job for you,” Tommy Shelby tells her, happily seating himself at her island bench. The marble countertop had cost an obscene amount of money, but Clive hadn’t grumbled. They had only been married for three months when they purchased this house, blindly shackling themselves to both a mortgage and a lifetime together. Now, she isn’t sure which concept she dislikes more. She thinks the mortgage would be easier to be rid of.

Grace arches an eyebrow at the man in front of her, slipping her hands out of her oven mitts. Is she going to have to pry the details out of him? He has made her wait for well over a week, she isn’t about to wait any longer. But she isn’t going to beg him for information either. He wants her to work for him, wants to use her and how society perceives her for his own selfish gain. She isn’t going to let him make her feel uncomfortable in her own home.  Clive already has the monopoly on such a notion.

A moment passes, and then two, the silence almost deafening. She can hear the school bell ringing off in the distance, the sound of Mrs. David’s washing machine as it spins. That woman washes more clothes than she could possibly ever wear, but Grace cannot blame her for attempting to break up the mundanity of daily life.  Not when moments before she was contemplating doing the very same thing herself, the allure of the feeling of the sun on her skin almost too powerful to resist. No one has slept in the guest room for months, but surely the sheets still need to be washed. 

She is contemplating turning around and beginning to wash the dishes her baking created, when Tommy Shelby finally speaks.

“I need you to rob a store for me,” he murmurs, propping his elbow up onto the bench. The act causes his jacket sleeve to shift downwards so his watch comes into view. It is almost comically large and likely to have a price tag to match, and she isn’t sure if the sight of it is supposed to impress her. 

He doesn’t care to offer any details other than that, and Grace is far too curious to be satisfied with such mediocre information. “What kind of store?”

“Another grocery store,” Tommy Shelby tells her. “The one the next town over. Word has reached us that they’ve just had a fantastic quarter, and their manager has been too busy flirting with one of the cashiers to properly bank their takings. It’ll all be in the safe, just like last time. You’ll just need to do exactly what you did last time – demand access to the safe, get the money, and leave. Only this time, one of my boys will be waiting to drive you directly to me.”

“When?” she asks. If he wants her to do it on Thursday she’ll have to skip the latest volunteer meeting – no small loss, if she’s being honest.  At least then she won’t have to listen to Denise talk about her children’s latest accomplishments.

“Tuesday morning. They’re understaffed in the mornings, and a housewife doing her grocery shopping in the morning, buying things to make her husband dinner? Nothing could be less suspicious.” Tommy Shelby looks at her, unblinking. The tiredness around his eyes is immensely evident, the skin sallow and puckered, but the slight imperfection does not make his gaze any less frightening.

Grace nods. Tuesday. It is as good a day as any, she supposes. She nods once more, before conveying her agreeance with a quiet, “Okay. Tuesday then.”

At that, Tommy Shelby stands up from his stool. He is only slightly taller than her, if that, and an island bench separates them, and yet she is still indisputably uneasy in his presence. She isn’t sure whether the feeling stems from Tommy Shelby himself, or from the way her pulse races whenever he is near. Still, she cannot help but watch him as he pushes the stool back under the bench, barely making a sound as he does so. Once he is satisfied with its position he straightens the ends of his jacket, the cuffs falling back over his watch.

Silently, he moves around the bench. She has no inkling what he is doing, her heart racing in her chest but it is seemingly impossible for her to move. He pauses, straightening his shoulder before he gestures towards the biscuits she had all but forgotten about. “May I?” he asks. She nods, swallowing around the lump that has settled in her throat.

“Of course,” she says, ever the hostess. “Help yourself.”

Tommy nods, almost to himself. She studies him as he picks up a biscuit, the domestic act almost jarring to bear witness to, holding it between his fingers for a moment before bringing it to his mouth. “Taste as good as they smell,” he tells her, after a moment. There is a slight dusting of crumbs on the lapels of his jacket, but she doesn’t dare tell him. Instead she merely nods, lips curving up into a hint of a smile.

Clive hasn’t complimented her cooking in years. Truthfully, she doesn’t need him to, doesn’t require validation on her culinary skills, but she welcomes Tommy’s words nonetheless.  Whereas she would think Clive’s words to be hollow, there is an honesty in Tommy’s that she admires.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

He nods, holding the remainder of his biscuit in one hand as he opens her door with the other. “Tuesday.”

Like last time, he is gone before she can even think of a suitable reply. Unlike last time, she boils the kettle and sits down at the bench with a cup of tea and two biscuits, drafting a grocery list.


End file.
